


Mandate

by Bakerstreetcat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom Greg Lestrade, First Kiss, Implied Johnlock, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sub Mycroft Holmes, TW: remembered teenage sex with dubious consent, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakerstreetcat/pseuds/Bakerstreetcat
Summary: It’s late in the evening when Greg Lestrade rings Mycroft Holmes’ doorbell with news about Sherlock, only to have Mycroft deduce everything he was going to say before he opens his mouth. However, as the evening progresses, Greg manages a very important deduction of his own...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mottlemoth for adding me to the Mystrade Valentine's Calendar authors on the basis of me saying I have a story in my head that I just need to write down. It gave me the impetus needed to write a story for the first time in over 25 years. I greatly enjoyed it! Please be gentle on my rusty writing.
> 
> Because I suck at reading instructions, I completely forgot to reference Valentine's Day anywhere in the story. So please be advised that the story takes place on 14 February.
> 
> *Warning*: there is a memory in there from when Mycroft was at school, which has highly dubious consent. It's not explicit, but don't read if that makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> In my head, the story has played out much further by now. If you enjoy it and would like to read more, let me know and I'll let you in further on the debauchery these guys get up to in my brain.

As they walk into the hospital room, Sherlock is awake, the top half of his bed lifted at an angle, allowing him to survey the room. His eyes shift irritably as he sees them come in, widening briefly, then narrowing. John Watson is asleep in a chair next to the bed, his mouth slightly open, his left wrist bandaged, his neck at an awkward angle that makes Mycroft wince in sympathy – he is going to have a beast of a headache when he wakes up. Which is imminent, as Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to keep his voice down.

“Inspector Lestrade, when I asked you to make sure my brother was looked after, I was rather thinking of cups of tea and a listening ear. You seem to have mistakenly inferred I intended you to roger him until he cried. Despite the fact that I am sure it did him good, I have to say I had expected higher standards of you.”

Greg’s face turns red as he seems torn between stomping off and punching Sherlock. John looks bemusedly from one to the other, deciding whether he is still dreaming. Mycroft heaves a heavy sigh. Sherlock had been more pleasant company last night…

*****

The sound of the doorbell has Mycroft look up from the email he is writing concerning a mandate to seek the release of political prisoners.

“It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sir.”

“Thank you Sam, please let him in.”

A slightly dishevelled Lestrade walks into Mycroft Holmes’ sitting room. Mycroft gives him a broad smile. “Ah, Detective Inspector, do come in. Take a seat. Allow me to offer you a brandy. I am sure you need one after your ordeal apprehending the felons. I’m glad my brother will be alright, and do hope Doctor Watson can eventually be persuaded to leave his hospital bedside long enough to have his wrist seen to.”

Greg stops dead in his tracks. “You… How… How do you know…”

“Know that you were in a kerfuffle, caught the malefactors, my brother got hurt, Doctor Watson sprained his wrist, now they are in hospital, but both will be alright?”

“Yes! Did someone phone you? There’s no CCTV there. Who would have…”

“It’s really clear as day, Detective Inspector. You come to my home address at ten in the evening. Evidently not a social visit, but a matter that requires my urgent attention. The only reason could be my brother. You have scrapes on your face, hands, and trousers, that indicate that you have been in a fight – a fight that my brother and Doctor Watson evidently got hurt in. My brother was hurt badly enough that you are coming to see me, so must be in hospital, but your face doesn’t express worry or sadness, so he is not in danger of permanent damage. There is a splint in your right trouser pocket, as commonly found in first aid kits and used to set a sprain. You wouldn’t set anyone’s sprain while an ambulance was on its way unless they needed their limb before the ambulance arrived – so Doctor Watson insisted you set his wrist so he could attend to my brother. Protective as he is of Sherlock, I doubt he’s left his side to let anyone look at his own injury yet. Obviously you have caught the miscreants, since you are here instead of chasing after them. Now will you take that brandy? Or would you prefer something else?”

 

_:What on God’s good earth was that about, Mycroft? Waving your deductions in Lestrade’s face, eagerly looking up at him to check for signs of him admiring your cleverness – childish and fatuous. Acting like Sherlock showing off to Doctor Watson. Your brother is the drama queen of the family; you’re the cool and civilized one, remember? Get a grip on yourself; you’re acting like a teenager trying to impress a pretty boy. For shame.:_

Greg had been standing open-mouthed for much of the soliloquy – _:the amount he keeps company with Sherlock, you’d think he’d be used to it by now:_ \- but on the repeated offer of a drink he seems to regain control over his composure. He takes the proffered chair and says: “Yes, now you mention it, a brandy would be lovely, thank you. Just the one though – then we’d better go see your brother. The doctors say he’ll be alright, but he’s had a nasty hit on the head and he’s under sedation for now – so it might not be an unpleasant visit,” he grins and winks.

Mycroft feels heat rising from under his collar and quickly busies himself rummaging through the drinks cabinet to prevent Lestrade from seeing him blush _. :Good grief, what is *wrong* with you tonight?! Have you never seen a handsome man before?:_

It is unsettling though. Lestrade…. The way he moved into the room, so agile, confident, *masculine*… His features; those deep brown eyes that glint in a way that seems to promise mischief… that voice, which could be soft as silk one moment and cold hard steel in the next… this whole tight bundle of testosterone, usually only seen in safe, public, situations, suddenly, unexpectedly, in his sitting room, in his burgundy chair, so unprecedentedly intimate…

He turns around with a snifter of brandy and offers it to Lestrade, who takes it gratefully. He sits back down in his chair, picks up his own brandy, as yet hardly touched. He is not much of a drinker, goes for quality rather than quantity. A few centilitres of a beautiful brandy like this will normally last him the entire evening. Yet now he has to fight the urge to gulp down the contents in one go. He is not good at informal social situations, avoids them where possible, and here he is stuck in a trap of his own making – he wanted to enjoy the detective’s company and so offered him an alcoholic refreshment, as is customary, not thinking about how he would actually go about having to have a conversation.

Fortunately Lestrade has no such difficulties. After swigging his brandy back in a quick gulp that makes Mycroft flinch, he launches into the story of how Sherlock had managed to track the Browney gang to a squat in Bethnal Green, only to rush in rather than wait for backup, because he was convinced they were on the verge of destroying the evidence (and insisted that the fact that the men were laying a fire when they entered the room proved him right). The resulting fight apparently was of a high intensity, and though the inspector is trying to keep his tone sober enough to fit one addressing the brother of a man who got hurt during said fight, Mycroft can’t help but notice a glint of pride and excitement in the older man’s story _. :He enjoys a good fight – it excites him. Probably part of the reason he joined the police force. He mocks my brother’s and John Watson’s adrenaline addiction, but he is no stranger to it himself.:_

Greg looks at Mycroft’s brandy, still hardly touched. “Come on, drink up then! We don’t want to get to the hospital too late; they won’t let us in.”

“I doubt that,” Mycroft says, but he swigs down the brandy like Greg had his earlier. He shivers involuntarily as the smooth burn seeps down his throat. Greg sniggers. “Good stuff! Come on, my car’s in your driveway.”

\-----

“… so Mrs Hudson is more than happy to keep Rosie with her as long as needed. That woman is a total saint. Can you imagine having Sherlock live in your house? Oh! Sorry, stupid question. Never mind me – still a bit giddy from all the agitation today.”

“Entirely understandable, Detective Inspector. And well deserved, I must say. From what Doctor Watson said, your handling of this case has been nothing short of remarkable. And given how prone he is to play up Sherlock’s contributions over anyone else’s, that is high praise indeed.”

“Yeah well; well done to you finally getting him to leave Sherlock’s side long enough to get his wrist seen to. I am a good enough first aider to know that that splint was utterly useless and we don’t want a doctor with a bad wrist. I was tempted to say that Sherlock wouldn’t be happy getting only right-handed wanks for a while, but I restrained myself.”

That broad grin and that wink again. And the mention of the word ‘wank’. Mycroft feels his knees turn slightly wobbly and unceremoniously plunks down in his chair without undoing the buttons of his jacket.

He looks up at Lestrade, the muted lighting of his sitting room making his face look soft, ageless, and endlessly fascinating. He wants, no, suddenly *needs*, to keep him here. Here, in this soft light; here, in his intimate sitting room, his fortress of solitude so unexpectedly and so delightfully breached.

Alcohol. When humans bond, they use alcohol. Mycroft has the best alcohol, used to lubricate the favours of oligarchs and oil barons. Yet never has it had a more momentous job than now. _:Keep him here.:_

_:Not brandy, he didn’t really enjoy that. I have an excellent Clos de Vougeot – but it would need to breathe. And Lestrade is not a wine drinker – whisky! Whisky is a manly man’s drink.:_

“Would you care for a night cap, Detective Inspector? Well-deserved after the ordeals of today, I’d say? I have a lovely Bruichladdich single malt, 24 years old, an adventure for the tongue.” _:YOU DID NOT JUST SAY THAT.:_

“Ah… so tempting, but I shouldn’t really, I’m driving…” Is that genuine disappointment in his eyes?

“That needn’t be an issue, Detective Inspector; my driver will take you home, as well as your car. Judging from what Doctor Watson said, I have you to thank for the fact that I still have a brother, and mixed blessing as that may be, I do think the least I could do is stand you a good drink.”

_:Please, non-existent deity…:_

“You’re right; I’ve had a long day, I’ve done well, the doctor said Sherlock is going to be just fine, and I have the day off tomorrow, so - why not indeed! Show me your Brewlad thing.”

\-----

“… so there we are, it’s the middle of the night, there’s a great big hole in the wall, Sally’s screaming, and I’m like ‘I did *not* sign up for this, why does the crazy stuff always happen on my shift?’”

It’s remarkably easy to talk with Lestrade. True, the detective inspector does most of the talking, proving himself a very entertaining storyteller, but Mycroft finds himself relating anecdotes and giving witty repartee with unexpected deftness. He slyly tops up the whisky occasionally and Lestrade doesn’t seem too eager to be gone.

_:This is going really well. I can almost see what people see in human contact. I’m having… fun?:  
_ Though surely having one pleasant chat in forty-odd years is only the exception that proves the rule… What is it about Lestrade that makes conversing with him so enjoyable?

_:Oh stop playing coy Mycroft, you know very well why you are enjoying his company so much. And it’s out of the question. You do *not* get involved. Besides, the man is as straight as a ruler. Would probably be mortified if he knew what you’re thinking. Enjoy the rare pleasure of having a conversation that doesn’t bore you and stop being a hormonal teenager.:_

\-----

“… of course then Anne left me for good. In the end, after all the struggle, I guess it was a relief, but it stings, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No. No, that’s not really… I fear I’m too time-poor for any kind of relationship, to be frank.”

“That’s exactly what Anne said. She said I was always away and didn’t have time for a relationship. I don’t know; I mean, I care about my job and it does have odd hours, but I think if you really care you make things work. Not sure if we really cared, though.” He takes another sip. “Anne and I got together way too young, neither of us really knew what we were doing. It was just the thing, you know? Find a pretty girl, marry her, work on your career, be happy… except neither of us was, we were just too chicken to say it. I was just too stubborn to accept that I’d made the wrong choices.

Thing is Mycroft… I don’t blame her for sleeping with another guy. I mean, I can’t believe she went for that type, ugly and dumb as an ox, but… truth be told, she and I hadn’t had sex in, oh, years.”

_:It’s perfectly normal for two friendly men to talk about sex. Men do it all the time. It’s more bonding._

_*Two* men, yes. It would help the conversation if the other man would also share an experience or so. Huh. Not likely. If I want to chase him away, that’s the way to do it. A love that dare not speak its name, indeed… Not that there’s been any love involved. Not even…_

_… Sutton…_

_Don’t think that name.:_

*****

 

“So, Holmes, being a wisearse are we? You know who I had over here complaining? Hooverville-Thompson. That’s right. He should by rights not even realize a rat like you exists, let alone be vexed enough by your insolent comments to come and complain to your prefect. What do you have to say for yourself? No, shut up. Your smarmy mouth won’t save you now. Bend over my desk.”

 

…

  
“Hold still Holmes. How can I inspect I didn’t do any damage to that sexy arse if you keep twisting? Gods, so tight. Shhh, keep still. I can make this feel nice. Just ease up… That’s it. Don’t move, just try to relax a bit… Hush, now, almost there…”

  
…

  
“Back again, Holmes? When will you learn to keep that brazen mouth shut? You know what I have to do now, don’t you? And perhaps afterwards we can find a better way to use that mouth?”

 

…

 

“Gods, Holmes, you’re gagging for it, aren’t you. Your fucking plump arse makes me crazy.”

 

…

 

“Fuck off, Holmes! Kiss me!? What do you think I am, a fucking poofter!? Get your filthy face out of here!”

 

…

 

“Go away, Holmes. I don’t need your attentions tonight.”

 

…

 

“Fuck off, Holmes. You’re no longer my fag. I lost you to Burton in a card game. Go bother him.”

 

…

 

“Sutton says thanks for the graduation gift, Holmes, but he can’t see you, he’s got to leave early tomorrow.”

 

*****

 

_:You were young and foolish. Childish infatuation, nothing more. Much better to have a purely economic arrangement that takes care of the urges occasionally. Sentiment is an indulgence I can scarce afford.:_

“… it wasn’t her fault, really. I just wasn’t that keen, you know? It just seemed easier to stay late at work, wait until she was asleep to come home, get up early to walk the dog on my days off… I feel a bit guilty looking back.”

Mycroft pours a bit more whisky and notices that his hand is less than steady. Has he had so much to drink? Or is it the conversation _?. :Lestrade, you are a bad influence. A very bad influence. Now please stop talking about sex. Or no, keep talking about sex._

_He’s gone silent. Keep him talking.:_

“Have you been dating at all, since you got divorced? It’s been a few years now.”

“A few times, but not really… it’s been a tricky situation, you know, for a man in my position… I have so many people under me, eyes on me, gossip would be so easily started and could be real bad…”

“Surely it’s considered perfectly acceptable for a man who’s been divorced for a few years to go on a dating site or visit a singles night?”

“That’s not what I’m after though. It’s…. damn it Mycroft, I’m fifty-four years old, I was in an unhappy marriage for thirty years, I don’t want to play around any more. I know what I want, and I want to go for what I want. And what I want…” he swallows, “… it’s blokes, Mycroft. I want men. Which New Scotland Yard *might* just be modern enough to deal with. But it’s not just that. I want to tie them up, whip them, get them on their knees, have them beg to suck my cock. Do you think that would go down well in the canteen if it got out?”

Mycroft is aware he is staring, but he can’t help it. His eyes blink and the rest of his face is incapable of movement. His heart is beating so loudly that he is certain the other man must hear it. He feels the blood rushing to his head and for a moment he is afraid he will faint. He should have a drink of water, but his arms refuse to move. Is this a joke? Is this some immensely elaborate setup to play a sick prank on him? How could anyone have found out about his biannual secret encounters? Encounters which left him bruised, wealed, but with his carnal urges dealt with for a few months. He's been so careful – hiring men only from the most discreet agencies. They are well used to requests from government officials, and would never risk having their reputation sullied.

_:Nonsense. No one found out. This is no prank. Look at the guy, he’s genuine. Also looking rather worried by now. Say something.:_

“Gehum…”

_:Oh, marvellous. No wonder you’re known for your erudition.:_

“Ah fuck I’m sorry, Mike, I shocked you. I’m sorry…”

“No!” Mycroft manages to get out.  
“No, I am sorry, Gregory, don’t take this the wrong way, I…” he coughs and reaches for his glass of water, gulps it down, trying to ease down the tightness in his throat. He looks at the older man, the eyes almost black in this light, regarding him with concern and a bit of confusion.

“… I am not shocked. Definitely not. I just… had no idea, and it took me by surprise.”

“… which is practically the definition of shocked.”

“No! No, Detective… Gregory, ehm… - OK, yes, I am shocked. But not because your revelation is distasteful. It’s just… I…” _:WORDS, damn it! I know thousands of them! Just one or two suitable ones would be most welcome at this point! I look like a bumbling idiot!:_

“… it turns you on?”

_:… words?:_

“OK, I may be completely off here, in which case I do apologize, but despite your brother’s frequent assertions to the contrary, I *am* a halfway decent detective, and the way your face flushed and your pupils dilated, and then your face flushed *even deeper*, does tell me that my words have some kind of quite profound effect on you. So if it doesn’t mean you are absolutely mortified, it might indicate that the effect is instead a… positive one?”

_:How does he do that? How do his eyes go even darker? He’s scrutinizing me – God, it’s like he’s looking into my very soul. He’s right, he is a good detective. I would never be able to lie under such a gaze. Mind you, I don’t think I’m able to speak at all at the moment.:_

Greg moves infinitesimally closer. The air is charged with such electricity Mycroft expects to feel a shock any moment. The deep brown eyes fill up his entire field of vision, he is unable to bear their gaze, yet incapable of looking away. He hears a small moan from somewhere. _:Was that me?:_

“Does it turn you on, Mycroft? Do you like that kind of talk? Do you like that kind of… act?”

_:Might as well give my vocal chords to science right now. They don’t appear to be any use to me anymore.:_

A chuckle. Good heavens, how can a chuckle sound like liquid sex?

“I think the answer to that is quite clear from the … body language. God, Mycroft, you are full of surprises. Not just a pretty mind.”

The brown eyes appear to be getting bigger and bigger until Mycroft feels he will lose his entire being inside them. A shock runs from his neck down through his spine as he feels Lestrade’s hand on his nape. His entire consciousness focuses on that glowing spot at the back of his head for a moment, until – his lips – his lips – touch – kiss -

Mycroft has no consciousness, no sensation, no thoughts, no awareness of anything except the lips. The lips, strong, sensuous, warm, on his mouth, *Lestrade’s* lips, the man with the eyes, with the arms, with the hand, oh god the hand on his neck, that strong, gentle, hand, on his neck, holding his head as the lips explore, a tongue a tongue A TONGUE!? on his lips, a gentle stroke, that travels from his lips straight to his cock and makes him shiver all over. From somewhere he manages to draw enough strength to _:reciprocate, damn it, don’t frighten him off:_ and move his lips, open his mouth, to touch tongue to tongue and the trembles run through his entire body now and FINALLY!! he seems to regain some control over his movements and he lifts his hands, moves over Greg Greg GREG!!!’s arms, clasps a shoulder, a neck, holds him, holds him tight, never move your mouth away, never ever ever move your mouth oh god oh Greg this can’t be happening it is a dream and if I open my eyes it will disappear oh god this can’t oh god your TEETH Greg you’re biting my lip oh god it hurts a little bit dream teeth can’t hurt I’m pretty sure of that oh give me more, give me more mouth, more tongue, more teeth, more Greg Greg GREG!!!

 

After several years, aeons, microseconds, they pause for breath. Greg is leaning on the arm of Mycroft’s chair, his face still only inches away.

Mycroft looks into Greg’s eyes. The intensity of the firelight reflected in that deep brown burns deep inside him. He would do anything the eyes would ask of him. Tell him. Order him.

“Mycroft…” the gentleness of the whisper contrasts with the fire and steel in the eyes. “God, Mycroft. I just want to take you right now, right here.

Is that what you want?”

He can only nod.

“Do you want me?” Nod.

“To fuck you?” Nod.  
“… to hurt you?” Nod.

Greg stands up, draws Mycroft to his feet. Again they kiss, their hands roaming over each other’s bodies, feeling every inch of the other, exploring hair, shoulders, arms, backs, buttocks. Mycroft’s rock-hard penis rubs against Greg’s equally firm counterpart. Again he nearly loses his entire consciousness in the kiss. _:This is not a rent boy from a discreet agency. This is a potential security risk. You should break this off now, and try to minimize the damage.  
Oh shut the fuck up. There are at least five ways in which this can work out satisfactorily, some more attractive than others, but no insurmountable problems present themselves as likely. This is an opportunity to enjoy myself a great deal more than I have in years and by Jove, I will take it!:_

Then Greg’s mouth moves to his neck and nibbles his earlobe and softly sighs in his ear, and all coherent thought is obliterated for a while.

Greg’s hands move to his chest, move to his tie, loosening it, undoing the buttons of his shirt, all the while keeping his mouth engaged with Mycroft’s face, kissing his mouth, his neck, his ears. Mycroft had no idea that having someone kiss one’s neck could be so intensely pleasurable. The sensation of the gentle licking, stroking, sucking, biting, nearly makes him come right there and then. _:How did I not know the neck is such an erogenous zone?:_ Greg’s hands have moved on to his waistcoat, then back to his shirt, undoing the last few buttons. Open them to reveal the white vest he wears underneath. He takes the shoulders of the shirt and waistcoat and shoves both garments back over his arms to his wrists, where they are stopped by the cuffs. He lifts Mycroft’s tie over his head and, stepping behind him, deftly puts it around his wrists, pulling it tight, tying them together, immobilizing his arms. Mycroft’s breath comes quick and shallow as the older man steps round to face him again. Both hands grab the neck of his vest, ball into fists, and with a quick movement tear the garment in half. With a nonchalant shove the remnants of the vest join the rest of his upper wardrobe around his wrists.

Greg takes a step back to admire what he has revealed. Mycroft closes his eyes in self-consciousness, but quickly opens them again, to see that fire in Greg’s eyes, the lips slightly parted, the pupils large – this is unmistakable lust, nay, hunger, and it’s hunger for him. He longs to sate that hunger, feels it consume him inside. Greg steps closer, not losing eye contact. His strong hands now directly touch Mycroft’s skin, drawing trails of liquid fire across his chest, sides, back. His bare chest against the detective’s shirt feels odd, so vulnerable, so naked, helpless and exposed, with his hands tied behind his back. The feeling is so new, excruciatingly unnerving, but exquisitely thrilling at the same time. His entire life he has spent covered in layers of silk, cotton, tweed, linen, wool, and an impenetrable arrogance, to keep everyone at arm’s length or further; but here, now, bare and unshielded, he draws his shoulder blades together to open up even further, to expose more of himself to his lover’s touch, to let this man, this vision, dream of a man, who is yet more solid and real than anything he’s ever experienced, explore every inch of him, touch his skin, that shivers and raises gooseflesh in his fingers’ wake. He lifts his chin to allow Greg easier access to his neck, with his demanding kisses, no longer soft, but ravenous, the intensity of his craving evident in the breaking of some subcutaneous blood vessels by a sucking kiss, teeth biting, not too hard, but hard enough to make him gasp and shudder slightly. Greg’s hands have moved to his nipples, pinching them slightly between thumb and finger, and pressure builds up slowly, as they are twisted ever so slowly but inexorably, further, and further – the pain builds up so exquisitely; he gasps, grimaces, the twist moves further, the pressure builds, the pain is so concentrated, so intense, so – “ahh!” a groan escapes his lips as the tension is released, and Greg’s hands are back on his shoulders and nape, pulling him close for a hungry kiss, his nails scraping down his back.

The detective strokes his hands down his shoulders, then lets them fall to his sides, as he steps back, like a panther surveying his prey. Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a moment to get his breathing down to a slightly more normal level before opening them again. Greg is watching him.

The eyes are all fire now, but the voice is ice cold steel, as he looks deeply into Mycroft’s eyes.

“On your knees.”

Mycroft’s knees give way of their own accord, his brain doesn’t appear to have a say in what happens, as if Greg’s voice has a direct link to his muscles. As he sinks down, the feeling of release is immense – letting go, finally lifting the burden of responsibility he carries always – he is no longer in control, he is an object in the hands of his lover, his to do with what *he* decides. For the first time in his adult life, Mycroft feels his brain wind down. Switch off. Release. Relief. Rapture.

As Greg’s hands open his trousers and pull out his hard member, and Mycroft’s lips part, his whole being focused on the man before him and the pleasure he can bring, one fleeting thought registers before his full attention is taken up:

_:I feel happy:_


	2. II

Greg closes his eyes, screws them shut, opens them again. His brain refuses to acknowledge the evidence of his own eyes, what he feels happening. He must be dreaming. He will wake up at any moment.

Mycroft Holmes, the enigmatic, fascinating, downright gorgeous, but so elusive Mycroft Holmes, is on his knees in front of him, tongue skilfully caressing his cock. Mycroft Holmes. The silken voice on the other end of a phone line, thanking him for taking in his narcotist brother. The marvel in a three-piece suit that met him in the hospital room and graciously persuaded him to keep Sherlock’s overdose out of official police records. The man who had shown up in front of New Scotland Yard in a sleek black car and carefully communicated how Greg might financially and professionally benefit from keeping an eye on the younger Holmes. Not that Greg had needed, or indeed accepted, the incentive – he had liked the weird clever posh junkie and had quickly found out that he was immensely useful to have around at crime scenes. Luckily, having him around at crime scenes was exactly what seemed to help him stay clean as well. And Greg was intrigued by this mysterious older brother, who seemed to want to stay out of the way, but who was so immensely concerned about his sibling, and would, it would seem, stop at nothing to help the younger man, despite the latter practically spitting venom when the name Mycroft was mentioned. Greg had happily let himself be carted off to odd locations to monitor Sherlock’s safety, and be picked up in the sleek black car for debriefing sessions afterwards – his favourite part, if he was honest. Seeing the ever so barely perceptible but deep gratitude in Mycroft’s eyes as his brother improved more and more pleased Greg a lot.

After his marriage had broken up, and he had finally admitted to himself what it was that he really wanted, he just might have had the occasional thought about Mycroft Holmes, late at night, after a few drinks, in the privacy of his empty bed. But he didn’t fool himself – he was well aware the likes of Mycroft Holmes would never stoop to notice a simple policeman like him. He was a useful tool, no more, treated pleasantly and politely, as one would any minion who proved effective.

And here he is. The British Government kneeling before him. The man who could make wars break out by raising an eyebrow, who could tell someone’s life history at one glance, who could make the Prime Minister jump to attention by simply clearing his throat, this most enchanting, enthralling, gorgeous dream of a man, is wrapping his lips around his glans and making him shiver. How on earth had he dared say the things he said? It was a miracle he hadn’t been dragged out of the house by that oh-so-discreet but definitely muscular butler. It was those eyes – those eyes had looked at him with such confusion, such trepidation, yet such hope – it had made him heady and overconfident. Well – not *over*confident, by the looks of things. Just bloody confident enough. Oh my god, Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft HoooOOOOO there, my boy, keep that mouth in check or I’ll come here and now and we don’t want that, there is so much more I want to do with you.

Greg grabs a handful of hair, pulls Mycroft away. “Not so fast. I thought I said I wanted people to beg to suck my cock. I don’t recall you begging.”

Those immeasurably deep grey eyes look up from under the thin eyebrows. Mycroft swallows, looks away for a second, looks back up. “Please, Sir, can I suck your cock?”

Said cock does a little jump upon hearing that. Greg had been playing for time, hadn’t meant to evoke an actual plea, but fuck, hearing that was hot and did funny things with his brain. Keep it together though. Yes, my boy, you will suck my cock, but not before I’ve explored quite a bit further. I want to see what makes you tick, Mycroft Holmes. What makes those grey eyes light up, what makes them screw shut, what makes those lips quiver and causes that delectable moan to come forth. Fuck, Mycroft Holmes, you are sex on a stick and I plan to make this night one we’ll both remember for a while to come.

A chuckle. “Oh, I like hearing you beg. And you will suck my cock, don’t worry, my pretty boy. But not quite yet.”

He puts his stiff member away and zips up with some difficulty. Then bends over, puts his right arm under Mycroft’s arms and sweeps his left behind his thighs, and with a practiced movement manages to lift the younger man up in his arms. Greg is rewarded with a surprised gasp. Fuck Sherlock and his constant picking at his older brother’s weight – there’s not an ounce too much on him. He carries his quarry out in the hallway, where earlier he had spotted a half-open door leading to a room where a light was on and a bed had been prepared – evidently Mycroft’s prescient staff were expecting he might want to spend the night. They probably hadn’t quite envisaged this turn of events though.

As he gets to the door, he pushes it open further and gently puts his burden onto the bed, the top of his back on the pillows so he can manoeuvre his still bound hands into a position where he isn’t bearing down on them too much. The bedside lamps are on, and it’s pleasantly warm in the room – though there is a fireplace, it is not lit, but there is a tasteful radiator cover under the drawn curtains where the warmth must come from. His lover will not be cold, which is good for the next stage in Greg’s plan.

He walks over to the foot of the bed, and starts unlacing Mycroft’s shoes, places them on the floor. Then the socks, to reveal those gorgeous slim white feet. He can’t help himself and gives a quick lick over the bottom of each. Mycroft remains perfectly still – not ticklish, then. He moves his attention further up, to where Mycroft’s erection is straining at his fly. Time to liberate this oppressed member of society. He bends over the bed, slowly opens the trousers, zips down, puts his hands inside the waist band of the pants underneath, and moves both down, revealing a long slim cock that seems very keen to make his acquaintance. Mycroft lifts his hips to help, wiggles a bit so the trousers and pants can be moved off the long pale legs, freckles and tiny red hairs dusted over them. Greg dumps the clothes unceremoniously on the floor, and Mycroft is fully naked on the bed, his face flushed, his cock fully erect, his hands folded in the small of his back. Greg takes a moment to take it all in. It has to be the most glorious sight he has ever had the good fortune to witness. Mycroft Holmes, this beautiful man, evidently very aroused, by *him*, waiting for whatever he chooses to do with him. He’s still convinced it’s probably all a dream, but bloody hell, this is the best dream in ages and he’s going to enjoy it to the max.

He climbs onto the bed, straddles the naked Mycroft, his fully clothed crotch touching the other man’s erection. Bends down, strokes his silky ginger hair, kisses his lips. “Are you ok?” Nod. “Your hands and wrists ok? Are they not being squashed?” Another nod. “Good. Look Mycroft, you are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, no doubt about that. And I can’t wait to get my hands on you. I want to feel every inch of you, make you squirm, make you moan, fuck you until you beg for mercy. But - this is important Mike – I need you to know you are safe with me. Alright? I want to enjoy that gorgeous body of yours, god yes. And I’d like to hurt you just right. But I do not want to damage you. So if at any point you feel uncomfortable, or you don’t like what’s happening, you say ‘Victoria’. And I’ll stop right away, and make sure you’re alright. OK?”

Mycroft nods, his eyes closed.

“This is important Mike. Look me in the eyes and say you understand and agree.”

The eyes open, the expression mixed – arousal, but also something that looks like irritation at this insistence on his explicit assent to such a banal issue. “I agree. And I understand. And I am of sound mind and body and fully capable of consenting to whatever.”

Well, let him be annoyed – Greg doesn't mind being seen as overly cautious as long as it prevents any risk of him hurting this man. His dominant personality is very much aroused by the unconditional surrender, but his dominant personality is also unequivocally protective, and everything about Mycroft’s behaviour so far seems to indicate that he has very little experience of anyone actually caring about his feelings. His kissing was so utterly guileless, so hesitant, almost clumsy, until he picked up Greg’s lead and seemed to pour his heart and soul into the kiss. Those were not the kisses of an experienced lover – those were the kisses of a man dying of thirst who is given the tiniest drop of water. _:Have you ever been kissed by anyone who meant it?:_ he wonders. And his heart feels like it’s breaking at the thought of this man who can make the world sit up and beg by a snap of his fingers, going home every day to an empty house, who is constantly surrounded by people that want something from him, yet no one giving a shit about what he might want, receiving the very best of domestic care and protection by people for whom he is nothing more than a pay cheque, doing his utmost to protect his family, who reward him by telling him he’s never been good enough. He feels a lump in his throat and bends over to kiss Mycroft, to feel that momentary hesitation, then that enthusiastic reply. He has never been with anyone who could kiss so intensely as this, so desperately, as if Mycroft is drowning and Greg is the only source of air. If his hands weren’t tied, he’s sure they would be grasping at him, trying to draw him closer, to hold him as near as possible. The fervent kissing arouses him, but he forces himself to slow down his excitement – there is plenty of time to ravish Mycroft later;  first let’s experiment a bit.

He sits up straighter, lets his right hand wander between Mycroft’s legs, caressing the inside of the thighs. Once he lets his hand just ever so lightly brush against the testicles, moving back down immediately. Mycroft squirms, winces, tries to move down slightly to bring his scrotum in contact with Greg’s hand. Greg takes a bit of inner thigh between thumb and forefinger, and squeezes it, not quite gently, looking intently at Mycroft’s face to gauge his response. He shivers, his mouth opens slightly, and a small moan escapes. Ah, that face looks exactly how it should – that’s the face of a man who is welcoming the painful sensation, surrendering into it. It’s a face with more peace in it than it had earlier. He pinches again, slightly higher and harder this time. A small gasp, a shiver. Mycroft’s head moves slightly back, in a subconscious gesture of opening himself up to his lover’s ministrations, of offering himself up. Oh, beautiful. Greg rewards him with a quick stroke of the testicles, before he tweaks the inner thigh again, on the other side, and earns another shiver and gasp. And Mycroft’s face seems to soften further,as he sinks deeper into the sensations. Greg bends over and lightly licks the stiff penis, a slow movement from bottom to top, squeezing a bit of thigh right as his tongue reaches the glans and makes a soft stroke round it. Mycroft’s breathing comes fast. Oh yes, he is certainly enjoying this. Time to take things a bit further.

Greg moves to the top of the bed and takes Mycroft’s shoulders, moves him gently to a sitting position. He strokes his hands down to his wrists, where he unties the tie, undoes the cuff links, and pulls Mycroft’s upper garments off his wrists; rubs them tenderly where the fabric has left weals. As Mycroft rolls his shoulders to get the stiffness out of his arms, Greg reaches under the spread and pulls out the plump pillows. “Move over a bit?” Greg says, and as Mycroft scoots slightly to the left, he piles two pillows in the middle of the bed. Then takes Mycroft’s left arm, and pulls him gently into position, lying on his front, his hips supported by the pillows, his face towards Greg, who gets off the bed, undoes his belt buckle, and pulls his leather belt out of the loops of his trousers. There is no mistaking that gesture, and there is also no mistaking the flash of excitement in those grey eyes. Greg bends down and drapes the belt over Mycroft’s buttocks, which shiver slightly upon contact with the leather. He stands up, leaving the belt, briefly surveys the hottest scene he’s seen in… probably his life, and says: “Don’t move.”

Then he turns around and walks out, closing the door behind him.


	3. III

Greg momentarily leans his back against the closed door, breathes deeply through his nose. His head feels light and spinning, probably because most of his blood is currently occupied lower in his body. He hasn’t been so horny in… well… decades? He calls up the sight of Mycroft lying there submissively waiting with his belt draped over him, engraving it on his mind, determined to memorize every detail so he will never not be able to conjure that image up in his mind. Fuck, that was hot. Fuck, Mycroft is hot. And breathe again. You are a man on a mission, Greg Lestrade. Try to clear your head a bit.

He forces himself to breathe deeper, get some oxygen into his lungs and brain, and looks down the hallway. This had seemed like a good idea just now. He doesn’t carry lube with him to work as a rule, and getting Mycroft out of the zone by asking if he had any and could he please get dressed again and get it had seemed like a bad idea, so he’d decided he would go and find some himself. But now, faced with the entirety of the unknown house ahead of him, he feels slightly overwhelmed.

However, no time to dawdle, Mycroft is waiting. And he is a detective after all – should be able to find lubricant somewhere in this house, mansion though it may be. First port of call – the bedroom. If none in there – the kitchen and get creative with extra virgin olive oil. Now Mycroft’s bedroom is probably upstairs, which means he needs to make his way back to the entrance, which is at the end of this corridor, and then go up the ornate staircase.

As he gets to the top of the stairs he is momentarily unnerved by the sheer size of the place and the number of doors on just this one landing, but he’s got started now, so might as well continue. He walks to the first door he comes to and opens it. A study. The second door is locked, so is the third. The fourth contains a bathroom. He’ll check the door at the end of the hall, and then head back in the other direction.

Ha! Bingo! This is obviously Mycroft’s bedroom. Large, beautifully furnished, luxurious but understated, in immaculate order and style. Greg finds the light switch with his left hand and heads straight for the nightstand. He is feeling a little bad about rummaging through Mycroft’s stuff, wants to keep the search to a minimum, and he’s reasoned that a man like Mycroft, pragmatic and sensible, would not hide his lube in a box in his sock drawer with his porn mags. So, nightstand it is then, and if not, he’ll go on a quest for the kitchen. Left nightstand contains some books and magazines – boring political stuff, by the looks of it. He makes his way around the bed to the right nightstand and opens it – ha! Who is New Scotland’s Yard’s best detective? Why indeed, it’s Mr Gregory Lestrade, who just managed to locate one small bottle of lube inside a giant mansion. Greg grins broadly to himself as he reaches into the nightstand, grabs the bottle, makes to get up… and freezes.

That was definitely the sound of a throat being cleared. Greg slowly raises his head to look over the bed, to find himself eye to eye with the oh-so-discreet but definitely muscular butler. With a previously not present tell-tale bulge under his jacket.

Greg feels his face go dark red. Shit. Oh fuck. Right. How does one explain to a security guard cum butler that one was merely getting the lube because the master of the house is currently in the guest bedroom with his bum in the air?

“Might I enquire as to what you are doing in Mister Holmes’ bedroom, Sir?”

… yes. That is not an unexpected question. Not unexpected at all. Too bad he hasn’t got round to thinking up an answer yet. Fuck.

Mycroft Holmes employs people who are good at what they do, so trying to bullshit his way out of this is probably a bad idea. Also, even if it weren’t, he doesn’t have any bullshit ready to be spouted. So probably honesty is the best policy. And this guy must be discreet, all Mycroft’s people are. Still, he’d have preferred not to have to spell out his and Mycroft’s actions to the staff quite yet. Oh well. He raises his hand, holding the bottle.

“… I was getting some lube.”

“… I see. And might I ask why Mister Holmes did not come up to get it himself, seeing as it is his? Or at least tell you where it might be found, so you wouldn’t have to walk around the landing trying all the doors?”

“Mister Holmes… doesn’t know I’m getting it. It was… a surprise.” Yes. Of course. Splendid work, Greg. Utterly plausible. Guests surprise their hosts with a bottle of their own lube all the time.

“And where is Mister Holmes now, Sir?”

“Downstairs, eh, in the guest bedroom. The one you prepared.”

A raised eyebrow. “I see.”

Of course; he wouldn’t believe that either. Why would Mycroft take a prospective lover to a guest bedroom rather than to his own, which has a bigger bed and the lube at hand?

“You don’t mind if I check on Mister Holmes, do you, Sir?”

“Eh…”

“Please come to this side of the bed, Sir, and keep your hands by your sides, thank you. Now please walk ahead of me down the stairs.”

He will be marched out of the house after all; or the butler will walk into the guest bedroom to check on Mycroft and embarrass everyone involved, or both… Greg is feeling desperately dejected. Everything had been going *so* well, and just because he had thought up some crooky idea of everything having to be just as he had in mind, he’d fucked up, and now poor Mycroft was going to be so embarrassed, and hate him, and never want to see him ever again, and he’d completely fucked up the best chance he’d had in fucking ages; and he could just kick himself, and spare the guard the trouble.

They stop in front of the guest bedroom door, where the butler once again clears his throat and asks, “Mister Holmes?”

“Yes, Sam?” Cool as a fucking cucumber. Like he is in there reading his paper and sipping a brandy.

“I am seeing Detective Inspector Lestrade back to the room, Sir. Is there anything you need?”

“I assure you I am quite alright, thank you, Sam. You may retire for the night.”

“Very well, Sir. Good night, Sir. Good night, Detective Inspector.” A friendly nod, and he is off down the hall.

Greg’s head is spinning once more. What on earth happened there? Sam’s face had changed from quietly threatening to calmly amiable in a split second. How could the butler know that he didn’t have some associate in here holding Mycroft hostage whilst Greg robbed the house? Greg can’t help but feel a bit disappointed in Mycroft’s security. He’ll have to have a word. Yet, he is immensely relieved that Sam hasn’t taken his duty of care a step further and opened the door. Once again, he finds himself leaning against the door, his heart beating hard, but he has no time to hang about – he needs to get in, to Mycroft, see how he is, if he is angry with him, turned off, disappointed, startled at Sam appearing at the door. He steels himself, and walks in.

Mycroft is lying perfectly still in the exact same position as he left him in.

Greg finds himself staring open-mouthed. He’d assumed Mycroft would have scampered under the duvet the moment Sam opened his mouth. He swallows. Mycroft looks at him as he closes the door behind him.

“If I hadn’t used the words ‘I assure you’, you would now be down on the floor with your wrists in cuffs and a gun against your head. I surmised you were just going to the lavatory, but if Sam got involved, I assume you were having a more elaborate tour of the house?”

Sheepishly, Greg holds up the bottle of lube.

Mycroft’s thin lips begin to twitch, and Greg feels the corners of his own mouth quiver. And as he looks Mycroft in the eyes, he can’t hold himself back any more and starts to giggle.

Within seconds, they are both crying with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was *trying* to write hot hot Mystrade, honestly. However, *someone* (glares at Greg) decided to turn this into a bedroom farce.  
> Don’t worry, when the gentlemen have *quite* finished their guffawing, we’ll get back on track. I hope.


End file.
